


Pensieve

by SherlockMalfoy



Series: Sherlock!Wizardverse Drabbles - General [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt, Magic, Post Reichenbach, Reichenangst, Wizards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-17
Updated: 2012-08-17
Packaged: 2017-11-12 07:49:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/488457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockMalfoy/pseuds/SherlockMalfoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is given a precious gift by being allowed to view Sherlock's memories. While finding the truth of his former fiance's fate, he learns just how deep the other man's devotion to him truly runs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Mary Morstan Incident

”Jim was right,” she hissed, standing over him. “You’re so **ordinary**.” She sneered at him as he writhed on the floor under her _cruciatus_. Taunting him. Mocking him. “Do you want to know what I’ll do to your heart?…” she asked, a hint of amusement at his torture in her voice. “How I’m going to burn the heart out of you?..”  
       ”No,” Sherlock gasped, his voice a moan of agony and despair.  
       John could feel it. Not the pain his friend endured. Not the torture, but his despair. He remembered what Mycroft had warned him about. How his brother’s memories were more than just visual echoes. Sherlock stored every detail drawn from every sense into his Mind Palace. To observe something so intimate from such an extraordinary mind… it could feel far more real than it actually was.  
       His heart wrenched in his chest, and every muscle in his body, every impulse told him to run over there, to put an end to this senseless violence. To protect Sherlock.  
       But again, he remembered there was nothing he could do as the woman, Mary, turned her wand as she stepped closer. Her pretty blue eyes alight with the sickening feeling of triumph.  
       This was not the sweet, kind woman John had fallen, or rather believed he had fallen in love with. This was not the woman who had helped him work through his grief over losing his best friend.  
       ”I’m going to marry him,” she said, her voice thick with delight as Sherlock moaned again. “Then I’ll mate him.”  
       John’s stomach lurched, and he was unsure whether it was his own reaction or the echo of Sherlock’s at her words. His breathing was shallow, but quick.  
       ”No,” John said, hating that all he could do was observe like some sick voyeur as the pain in Sherlock’s wide, ashen eyes went deeper than the curse inflicted upon him could ever reach. And John felt his heart break. Absolutely break in that moment as he was sure Sherlock’s must have done.  
       ”And then,” she said, stepping back a pace when Sherlock reached out a shaking hand to grab at her, still trying to resist. Still trying to fight back with all that he had… His fingers closed on air. “When he’s finally forgotten all about you, when he’s at his most content and happy…”  
       John’s voice caught in his throat.  
       ”I’ll kill him.”  
       John saw the flash of rage first, the spark of green in the detective’s eyes before he heard the roar of his voice. Something raw. Something utterly primal as he struggled to get to his feet.  
       His limbs were heavy and still shaking. His body twitching and convulsing under the influence of Mary’s curse. But Sherlock hadn’t cared.  
       And John realized quickly why…  
       Sherlock believed the pain was worth it. Every excruciating spasm. Every single moment. Because he thought he deserved it for what he had done to John.  
       ”Impossible!” Mary shouted, taking further steps back as Sherlock staggered closer, grimacing through the pain. “No one… You can’t-!”  
       A trembling hand reached out. His wand spiraled out of the shadows of the machinery where it landed, summoned wordlessly by its master.  
       John saw a white flash at the edge of his vision and turned, but it was hard to make it out. Hard to see… Then he realized it was because Sherlock hadn’t seen it. His attention was fully focused on Mary. Fully focused on what he was about to do.  
       Green sparks crackled at the silver tip of his wand and his lips parted. “ _Avada-!_ ”  
       ” _Expelliamus!_ ” shouted a muffled voice, then it became clearer as Sherlock’s wand was forced from his hand, thankfully seconds before he could complete that final, most definitive curse that would turn him into what he despised most.  
       Footsteps coming closer, from the direction of the white flash. “ _Immobulous!_ ”  
       That voice… Mycroft. John saw him step into the line of focus as Sherlock seized up. Mary hissed a curse from between her teeth, but Mycroft deflected it easily with… his umbrella. For a split second, John thought that was actually a bit funny. And it made so much sense now that Mycroft always kept it with him. But then his attention was turned back to Sherlock, staring out with burning, seething rage.  
       Before Mary could cast a second curse at Mycroft, another flash appeared at the edge of John’s line of sight. White, like Mycroft’s had been.  
       He saw Lily before he heard her. As Mary let lose a string of hexes, Lily raised her wand and disarmed her before uttering a binding spell.


	2. To See Too Much

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This picks up IMMEDIATELY after "The Mary Morstan Incident".

      The scene abruptly ended, the warehouse and those inside dissolving into blue-gray smoke as he spun around to try make sense of what was happening. The smoke shifted, curved and molded itself into a new scene. A darker colder scene.  
      A bedroom he had never seen before. Smaller than the one he currently shared at the Manor with Sherlock. But larger than either of the ones they occupied at Baker Street. Dim light cast from a bedside table showed John a sombre sight. He moved to the four poster bed, forgetting that he was only a voyeur to the scene and finding that his hand passed through the form huddled under the heavy blankets.  
      The breathing was shallow, laboured. He knew he should go. Pull himself out of the pensieve. He’d seen what he’d come to see. The truth about Mary. Why she was suddenly gone from his life. What Sherlock had done to the woman he loved.  
      He turned away, but froze when he heard that baritone voice shout out, calling his name in a cracked, panicked tone. _**“JOHN!”**_  
      He spun around to see Sherlock. Hair soaked with sweat, his arm outstretched and grasping at the air before he realized he was alone in the bed. The blankets pooled around his waist, his arms and torso covered in bruises on top of scars. Old and new. John bit his lip, backing away as he tried not to dwell on how many had accumulated on that pale skin between The Fall and his return.  
      ”You’re awake.”  
      John spun as Sherlock’s wild eyes searched for the sound in the same direction. “Where’s John?” he asked as his eyes fell on the empty space where John now stood. And for just a moment the doctor thought Sherlock could see him. Knew he was there, standing back and watching. But his gaze moved on to the man seated in the chair at the corner of the room.  
      ”Safe,” Mycroft drawled. “Upset that his fiance is missing. Angry that you’ve also disappeared, so he has logically linked you to it. But… now quite safe.”  
      Sherlock swallowed, nodding and muttering to himself softly. “And Mary?” he asked. “I mean, Maria Moran? Is she… Did I…”  
      ”No,” Mycroft replied, and John noted he’d never heard even the slightest hint of sentiment, of care in the politician’s voice before. It was clear to John the other man was trying to sound reassuring. “No. She is in Azkaban, awaiting trial. However… Lily may have gotten a little… overprotective… before the aurors arrived.”  
      Sherlock nodded in the bed as Mycroft turned his attention to the item in his hands. John could see the glint of silver in the dim light, and knew what it must be. A wand. _Sherlock’s wand_.  
      ”I have instructed Greg to take documents to John showing evidence of Mary’s history as a Black Widow. It is not far from the truth. He will, of course, know nothing of your involvement. Wouldn’t want him to go getting into trouble after you’ve nearly killed yourself twice to rescue him, now would we?”  
      Sherlock sighed as he shakily lay back on the pillows, staring up at the ceiling with his sweat covered brow furrowed in deep thought. “There’s something…” he muttered, just barely audible even to John.  
      “Rest, brother mine. You’re still weak. You completely drained yourself resisting the _cruciatus_.”  
      “I need to get back. John-“  
      ”Has survived three years without you. Another week is inconsequential.”  
      John watched as Sherlock shook his head against the pillows before struggling to get out of the bed. Fumbling over himself in similar fashion to the time Irene Adler had drugged him.  
      ”Severus!” Mycroft snapped, setting the wand aside and rising from his chair. “Get back in bed!”  
      ”I-” he said, the syllable punctuated by his hand gripping one of the bedposts. “ **Must** get back.”  
      John had expected as sense of panic with the sudden surge of urgency that Sherlock’s memory filled him with. But as he watched Mycroft struggle, attempting to wrestle his brother back into the bed he could only feel the ache of concern in his chest. And it grew into worry when Sherlock finally wrenched himself away, staggering to the wardrobe in search of clothes.  
      ”Damn it!” Mycroft swore. “John will be just-“  
      ” _ **No**_ ,” Sherlock somehow managed to growl angrily as he yanked open one of the doors in a desperate search for clothes. “Love potion withdrawal!”  
      He saw Mycroft’s expression change, the impartial mask of the politician turning into full dread. “Are you sure?”  
      As the memory began to dissipate and fade into another John strained to hear Sherlock’s reply, but wasn’t able to make it out in time. He stumbled forward as the smoke took on new familiar shapes and forms. Baker Street. Their home. Figures took shape, one on the floor, the other gesturing wildly. Then the sound kicked in.  
      Shouting.  
      His own.  
      And though he couldn’t hear clearly what was said, he remembered it far too well.  
      He rubbed his hand, his thumb tracing the scar from that day when he’d first come face to face with Sherlock bloody Holmes for the first time in three years. This memory came well before the other two. And he didn’t want to live through it again. He’d gone to see Lestrade after, and let him have it as well…  
      But Memory John had done his damage and was gone in a blinding fury, slamming the door behind him so hard it rattled in the hinges. His gut wrenched as he remembered Lestrade’s remark later on this particular day.  
       _Hate to see what the bastard looked like when you got done with him._  
      Now… he would get to see it. He didn’t want to. He wanted to pull out. To pull away and leave this moment where it belonged. But he couldn’t stop himself from edging closer. Watching as Sherlock used the table to pull himself up, groaning with the effort.  
      When he was on his knees, he paused, touching his side where John had caught him with his elbow. He finally got to his feet and paused again. John felt nauseus. He wasn’t sure if it was his own discomfort or Sherlock’s.  
      The Memory Sherlock turned and walked through him. It was a strange sensation that sent chills through John. He turned to follow Sherlock through the flat. He was moving slowly, as if at any moment he may fall. Pale hands brushed the wall to steady himself as he passed the doorway into his bedroom.  
      John hovered at the door, curious to see what came next. He wished he hadn’t. Sherlock had quickly divested of his shirt, and John saw again the arms and torso covered in bruises and scars. Some of those bruises he knew would become larger and darker as they days went by. Each roughly the shape of his own fist. But one particular blotch caught his attention.  
      When Sherlock pulled his hands away and looked down, he frowned and clenched his jaw. “Damn,” he said, reaching for his shirt again and trying to use it to dab at the place in his side. The side where John had hit him. Where he’d already been injured and blood had seeped through the dressing on the wound.  
      John felt suddenly sick.  
      His mind went into a panic.  
      But Memory Sherlock had looked around his room, as if searching for something. Not finding it, he passed through John again quickly, one hand holding his shirt to his side as he went to the bathroom.  
      ”Sherlock, I’m sorry,” John said, forgetting that he couldn’t be seen or heard. Not really caring when he did realize it. “I didn’t know.”  
      Sherlock tossed his shirt over his shoulder, and it passed through John who kept trying to reach out and help him. Kept trying to pick up the fresh bandages he’d taken out. Kept trying to get the antiseptic wash.  
      But Sherlock calmly picked each item up as needed and tended to his wound. Which wasn’t as bad as it looked. It wasn’t so fresh… but just this side of healed. And John had reopened it.  
      When he was done, Sherlock inspected his work and placed the fresh bandage on top, using his teeth to rip pieces of medical tape off and affix it to his skin.  
      When he was finished Sherlock slumped down to sit on the toilet, his head in his hands. John edged closer, wanting to put his hand on his shoulder, but stopped when he noticed the man’s shoulders were trembling. He’d never seen anyone so broken as he did now.  
      Once more he was surrounded by the smoke. It had become a familiar friend by now. It reformed as a rooftop. For a shattering moment John was in a panic until the figures filled in and he realized this wasn’t St. Barts. This wasn’t the moment that had shattered his life again. A blond man landed with a grunt beside him before breaking into a run. He kicked in a door, the top entrance of whatever building this was.  
      But it was the man who followed that had gotten his attention. He’d jumped from the building across the alley, and tucked himself into a roll to keep from injuring himself.  
      John’s eyes caught the splash pattern of something black on the back of the bright yellow shirt as the red haired man stood, not giving himself time to fully recover before chasing after the blond.  
      John followed, his heart racing as he took the stairs two at a time to keep up. There ahead he spotted them in the corridor. Backing up a few steps to the landing John went forward again.  
      The blond was standing in the familiar stance of a soldier. But that crazed look in his eyes… John knew he was desperate. Knew he was out of options. “You won’t do me like you did Jim.” Knew he was about to die.  
      ”Jim did himself in, Seb.”  
      ”LIAR!”  
      The gun was fired.  
      Sherlock raised his hand, and John had expected to see his wand in it. But no, it was another firearm. A revolver. As Sebastian turned to make his escape, Sherlock fired.  
      The body slumped forward, and Sherlock staggered to brace himself against the wall. He dropped the weapon and clutched his side. The silence was eerie as John watched the dark, wet patch spread beneath his hand.  
      Despite the pain he must be feeling, which John could sense but figured Sherlock must have forced himself somehow to not acknowledge, Sherlock fumbled with blood slicked fingers for something in his pocket. John came closer. As close as he could to see what Sherlock was doing. He watched as the man scrolled through a list, then found the number he was looking for and frantically began to text.  
      The message John saw before he felt as if someone were pulling him by the scruff of his neck.  
      But he managed to see it in full seconds before it became wisps of smoke and he was pulled out of the pensieve.  
      He stood, dazed and overwhelmed with information, staring into the face of Mycroft Holmes. The only thing he could think of as Mycroft left the drawing room with the vials he had collected from the memory viewer was that text message…

**_Moran dead. John safe. Home soon. - SH_ **


End file.
